The Window
by metameric1
Summary: short, fluffy Daria/Trent diversion. Be assured, it will get to the fuzzy bits. Eventually. I know I should be finishing up the others but I need a little break. AU, no real connection to any of the other D/T fics I've done. I dunno, just like bringing this unlikely couple together.
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer: Daria and associated characters are owned by MTV, or whomever has acquired copyright. This is fan fiction written for fun and entertainment only. No money or other negotiable currency or goods have been exchanged.**_

_**A/N: This story has NOTHING to do with the other fics I've written. D/J are 24 years old, Trent is 29. Much has happened since the two girls graduated from Lawndale High…**_

_**Chapter 1**_

_**For the Moment, Free**_

_**Raft University, Boston**_

In cadence with the rest of her graduating class, she moved the tassel to the other side of her mortarboard.

Her time in college had come to an end. After a long deliberation, she had decided to postpone her Doctorate, and spend a few years in the real world. Perhaps the month in Paris would clear her head, before she started at what she hoped would prove to be a temporary position. Despite the decent starting salary, it wasn't what she really wanted, but it would have to do for now. She wasn't unrealistic enough to expect to step into her dream job with just a freshly minted MFA and no real experience.

Now, in the press of her classmates and the crowd, she wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of the academic regalia and into her favorite jeans. There was the dinner, though, hopefully just a quiet time with the people closest to her. The jeans could wait a few hours, considering the fortune her parents had spent on getting her to this point in her life.

"Well, look at you! _Summa Cum Laude,_ Master of Arts from an Ivy League Institution," Jane said proudly.

The two friends of nine years embraced tightly. "Congratulations, _mi amiga."_

"Thank you, Jane, she murmured into her best friend's shoulder. "You found me pretty quickly in this mob."

"Not too many with this kind of a collection," Jane smiled, fingering her multicolored honors cords. "And my spotter helped." Jane glanced over Daria's shoulder, a sparkle in her eye. Daria turned, her face blossoming into a radiant, full smile before she could stop it.

Saying nothing, Trent stepped forward and wrapped his arms around the diminutive woman, almost lifting her off her feet. He held her for a long moment.

"Hi." She almost stammered. ""I thought you were on tour," she said hesitantly into his ear.

Finally releasing her, he reached over and brushed a strand of hair out of her face. "I told my label that I had to have this weekend clear, so the tour starts next week. There was no way I was going to miss your graduation, Daria."

"Thank you," she said quietly. She pressed her face into his shoulder, his familiar scent triggering a flood of memories. _Not now, it's taken so long for us to rebuild our friendship. No. Not again._

* * *

"Thanks for inviting me, Mrs. M," Trent smiled. "You look great. All the women in your family do."

"You and Jane are family, Trent," she smiled at him fondly. "And _when_ are you going to learn my name?"

"Sorry, Helen. Kind of a habit. You two raised a couple of beautiful, smart women."

"They sure are, aren't they?" grinned Jake. "Glad I made it to see this. Now if I live to see my girls married and my grandchildren, I can die happy."

"Jake!" Helen shook her head. "Stop talking like that. I'm too young to be a grandmother."

"No, you're-" Jake started, interrupted by a quiet smile from Trent. Leaning over, he whispered in his ear.

"Jake, with all due respect, you need to stop now."

Jane laughed, turning to her boyfriend Matt. "See? You're lucky you don't have _that_ kind of pressure to deal with."

_C'mon, Janey. _Trent glanced protectively at Daria, who had reached over to pick up her glass of wine.

Quinn did the same a moment later, raising her glass. "To my brilliant sister Daria, who's about to kick the collective asses of the world."

Trent smiled at Quinn as he lifted his cabernet. _Took her awhile, but she got it. Her sister's a jewel._

He watched Daria's small, full lips delicately touch the rim, the light sparkling off the meniscus of dark liquid. The glass was returned to the table, it's rim still unmarred. His eyes flicked back to those lips, now glistening. She still didn't use lipstick, or any makeup, as far as he could tell. That was the natural color of her lips, something that he had always thought lovely. Janey would use the bright scarlet lipstick as a way of hiding who she was from those unable to see below the surface, while Daria thought she was simply hiding in plain sight.

_What a subtle beauty she has. That guy Will was such a total fool to lose her. What was it about the guys Daria seemed to attract? They could see her brilliance, her grace; but they would also see a woman that they want to make even more perfect. So what if she didn't care about her appearance? She tried to be honest about everything. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing to improve._

He looked away, not wanting to let her catch him staring at her. _Maybe it hadn't been such a good idea to come. Still, she seemed okay with it now, and dammit, he was happy to see her reach this personal milestone on her own terms._

_He had considered begging off after presenting her with the flowers and her engraved fountain pen, but she had touched him like a feather on his arm when Helen had told everyone where the restaurant was._


	2. Chapter 2

_**(A/N: the tone of this chapter is perhaps a little dark...be patient, this really is a D/T shipper story!)**_

_**Chapter 2**_

_**Quiet Reflection**_

_**Paris, France; 18**__**th**__** arrondissement**_

The early summer days were a quiet, rich experience. She settled into her little budget room at the Timhotel Montmartre, whose entrance opened onto a small, tree-shaded plaza. She loved the view from her fourth floor room; she would throw open the window, her book or magazine on the wide sill, leaning out, thinking.

She quickly took to the Metro, the key that unlocked the City of Light. She quickly learned that avoiding the press of people crowding the elevators at the Abbesses Metro station was a bad idea; it became clear the first time she trudged up a seemingly endless tiled staircase to the streets above. Of all the Metro stops in the city, this one was the deepest, set far below the limestone hill on which Montmartre sat. No wonder the view from the Basilica of Sacré- Coeur was so expansive.

Tonight, she had entered her room, leaving the lights off. She moved the table and the single chair over to the open window and sat, listening to the laughter of couples below, the distant honking of horns, and the clatter of motorbikes on the cobbles. The lights of the cars and the shops below were reflected in the windows of the building across the narrow Montmartre street, and with the glow of the night skies of the city it was light enough to see as she unwrapped her simple, cliché meal of bread, fruit, a few grams of smoked meat and cheese. She smiled at the plastic cup, covered with a bit of saran, filled with a generous portion of red table wine.

The old woman at the little shop had watched her considering a bottle of wine, which she put back. It would be a pity to waste, and she had no one to share it with. After her items had been paid for, the woman had nodded at her and poured her the wine as a gift from her own table. She smiled, a twinkle in her eye as she passed the cup across the counter to the polite young American woman. Returning the already opened bottle to its place next to a framed photograph on the table, she returned to her own solitary meal.

"_Merci beaucoup, Madame,"_ Daria said sincerely, _"Vous avez fait ma soirée!"_

"You are most welcome, my dear," came the heavily accented reply.

Tonight, as she too ate alone, she thought of Jane.

A few years ago, she would have never imagined that she would be spending time in Paris without Jane. Their friendship had centered her, but life in its indifference had laid out a parting of ways. She had continued with her studies, while Jane, upon graduating from BFAC had plunged headfirst into her passions. The rarest of opportunities had presented itself, and Jane had moved to Manhattan, into a loft with her still-current lover and fellow artist Matt.

Of course Daria had been truly happy for her; she herself had chosen a path that had a clearly defined goal even as she found her personal life drifting from entanglements first with Stephen, and then with Will.

Why was she so difficult to live with? It must be her; both men had adored her, and yet she eventually grew to resent the way each saw her, a woman she could not be.

Jane didn't help matters; she wasn't much better at this relationship thing but simply chose not to let it bother her. She wasn't one to fret about attachment, and in her own projection had seen Daria as simply going through a phase of learning who she was. She hadn't meant anything by it, but she had emailed Daria a photo of a cardboard box full of available kittens, with the words_ Crazy Cat Lady Starter Kit _written on one of the box flaps. It was funny, of course, but Daria had deleted it without comment the next day.

What was wrong with her?

The night before, dining alone at the little café across the plaza from her hotel, she found herself listening to a street musician playing a creditable Django Reinhardt cover on a battered guitar in the little plaza. It made her smile, thinking of Trent.

_After Jane had graduated, he had declared his task of supporting her complete and had quit his day job. Having gone on indefinite hiatus from Mystik Spiral was a good thing; he found himself applying himself with far greater discipline as a solo singer-songwriter. He would succeed or fail on his own._

_And he had done well. His new songs were amazing, drawing from a well that ran deeper than Daria had ever suspected. She would listen to the music he would send her, songs that spoke of lost dreams, longing, and of love given, expecting nothing in return. The strange thing about it was that even when his music turned to joy, that same longing somehow was always there, the happiness tempered by the realization that the heart still thirsted for something it could not have._

_It was as though he understood something fundamental about her, something that they shared. But then, judging from the public response, it was something universal, something that seemed to be a sharing of what it meant to be human. _

_Both Jane and Trent had been there for her when she graduated, and still she found herself alone. _

_Jane, even if she could have scraped together the money to join her, had other, now inescapable responsibilities. And Trent had his second tour, already postponed for her. He had finally done it, and it always made her smile when she thought about it. Fame, fortune, and any woman he could ever want. He deserved someone who could appreciate him for who he was, someone who would treat him right. Success couldn't have happened to a sweeter, more deserving guy._

She had been startled when politely asked by a handsome young man if she minded some company. The café was quite crowded, and there were no other tables available. The company was not unwelcome, and it was not uncommon there for tables to be shared by strangers. At first, she rather enjoyed his company. He was charming, well read, and his rudimentary English was more than a fair match for her barely passable French. He was clearly attracted to her, and she was tempted by his offer of after-dinner drinks and perhaps something more. After all, this was the perfect setting for such a dalliance.

Almost.

She realized that while they had been talking, the guitarist had stopped, and was pocketing his meager earnings. She had wanted to go to him and drop at least a Euro into his case in thanks for the gentle pleasure he had provided her. As she watched, he replaced his instrument into its battered case and stepped away into the darkness. Her opportunity was lost, and it left her with a strange sadness.

She quietly thanked her dinner companion for his company, and left him there, disappointed.

_That was so like her. _

Finishing tonight's modest meal, she gathered the crumbs, paper wrappers and napkin into a tight twist, and slipped her light sweater back on. Making sure her key was in her pocket; she stepped out into the hallway and made her way down the narrow staircase. She needed the exercise, and besides, the little elevator was a bit too claustrophobic even for someone as small as she was. She deposited the trash in the receptacle near the door and stepped out into the cooling summer evening, wondering if the guitarist was anywhere about.

Paris, and particularly in the Montmartre, never lacked for some kind of music on the street; buskers were everywhere, and it wasn't hard to find something that pleased your ear or suited your mood. Tonight the little plaza in front of the hotel was claimed by an accordionist, who was trying his luck with a medley of Nino Rota's music from Fellini's _Amarcord_. She listened until the theme came around, leaving him a half-euro coin for his trouble. She was saving a two-euro piece for the guitarist, if she ran across him this evening.

She made her way down the steep hill in front of the plaza, smiling at the sound of a Jazz trio near the entrance to the Abbesses Metro stop. The little cocktail drum kit was easily upstaged by the amazing musicality being coaxed out of a vintage wooden toy piano, and a frighteningly frail looking upright bass kept the tune moving along. She stayed for three numbers, and thought about stopping for a decaf latte, disregarding the pairings around her.

She thought about how she had adapted, mastering the art of being a single woman in a city of legendary romance. She wasn't trying to be noticed; that was something that had never interested her. Instead, she seemed to have a purpose being wherever she happened to be; independent and self-confident. She didn't look out of place; she was atypical for an American tourist. She was keenly observant and had a minimal impact on her surroundings. She was experiencing Paris on her own terms, and that was why she was there.

Two hours later, she found herself returning to the little plaza, the leaves of the trees overhead gleaming a shadowed malachite green under the streetlight near the café. The guitarist had moved on and was nowhere to be found.

She climbed the stairs to her room, pulled out her journal, and opened the little electronic safe in the tiny closet. Inside were the two things she did not want to lose, her passport and the lovely black and gold fountain pen that Trent had given her when she graduated. She held the instrument to the light, passing her fingertip across the engraving.

_Truth; thus, Beauty. _

_DM._

She uncapped the pen carefully, and set its golden nib to paper. Her thoughts were unsettled and jumbled; she put them down as quickly as they came to her. It was a cathartic ritual for her; she would reread it all later and then tease out some semblance of structure.

Hours passed; there really was not enough light to work like this. Perhaps she could find a suitable lamp at one of the weekend street markets. If it was weird enough she could take it home and give it to Jane.

She yawned, taking off her glasses and setting them on the windowsill. Rubbing her eyes, she carefully capped the pen and put her head down on the desk, just for a moment. It was time for bed.

Outside, the streets had grown quiet; only the creaking of a solitary, rusty bicycle echoed between the buildings.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Chapter 3**_

_**A Curious Encounter**_

_Ow. _

Her neck hurt. Hell, she must have been in this position for hours. The sky outside was light; the sounds of a waking Paris filled the street below her window. Pushing herself away from the table, she remembered and reached for her glasses, yawning.

She felt the tips of her fingers unexpectedly run into the frames, which skittered away and over the edge of the windowsill.

_Oh hell!_ A moment later, she could hear them hitting the sidewalk with an ominous crack.

She groaned, hand still outstretched. There was no way they could have survived that drop without some kind of damage. Resisting the urge to pound her head against the tabletop, she instead stood, pulled shoes on, grabbed her room key and stumbled into the hallway.

_Dammit, she was practically blind without her glasses._ Even five feet way, details around her were lost. It would be difficult, if not impossible for her to locate her glasses if they had bounced into the street.

She squeezed into the tiny elevator and rode down wedged between a portly, smiling man and his annoyed wife. Finding herself in the lobby, she made her way to the distracted young girl behind the counter.

A woman overheard her trying to explain to the clerk what had just happened. She tapped Daria on the shoulder.

"Hello, I speak some English. Let me help."

"_Merci, desole-"_ Daria stumbled.

"_Non,_ it's okay, I'll help you look." They stepped out of the lobby, making their way over the cobbles to the street side of the building. "I don't see them on the sidewalk. Is that your room, with the window open?"

Daria couldn't even see what she was pointing at; it was just a blur to her. She nodded. _Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why didn't I bring a backup pair? Oh yeah, I can't afford it._

"Ah. Here they are…shit." Daria could barely see her reaching down into the gutter, and turning something over in her hands. "I'm sorry, but they are badly broken. These have been repaired before, no?"

She placed the remains into Daria's hands. The frames were completely broken in two; a small metal pin that had been used to fix them previously had bent and broken away much of the plastic at the bridge. One lens was badly scratched. She sighed; they would have to be replaced, and glasses were expensive.

"Thank you for your help," Daria said glumly. She wiped the lenses clean as best as she could, and held the pieces up to her face. "How do I look?"

"Like an exquisite owl that has been run over by a car," smiled the woman. "I know of a good optical shop. A friend of mine owns it, and he can fix anything." She offered her hand. "My name is Dauphine Chapoux."

"Daria Morgendorffer." She folded the remains and put them in her pocket. "Thank you for your help. If you could point me in the right direction, I'll be on my way. I've taken too much of your morning as it is."

"It's no trouble, Daria. Besides, you could get hurt on these stupid streets. They do not follow logic in their layout, and the surfaces are quite broken in places." She took her by the arm. "It's not far. It's early, but they will open for me."

She reluctantly accepted. Being able to take care of herself was something that she took for granted._ How could she have been so careless?_

She looked over to the woman with gratitude. She was a decent sort, offering her help without hesitation. She didn't look much older than herself; taller, of course. Her black hair, more common here in France, reminded her of Jane. "Do you live in this area? It's lucky for me that you were near."

"I have a friend at the hotel that pretends I am a guest, so I can have breakfast for free sometimes," Dauphine laughed. "I share a little flat nearby; I am an artist. A jeweler."

Daria smiled, immediately comforted by her familiar, creative occupation: a starving artist. "You best get there early before the tourists wake up," she offered. "We can eat like pigs at a trough."

"Yes, I can see you are quite fat," Dauphine laughed. "You are very funny."

"Then you are easily amused," Daria half-smiled, relaxing at the easy banter.

"You are here on holiday?From your accent, I think you are American?" She guided her around a small pile of sand and cobblestones, pulled up to access some pipes below the sidewalk.

"Yes, a little vacation before I start my new job. I just graduated from college."

"We are here." She steered Daria into a small atelier, ignoring the little _fermé _placard on the door. "Gerard? I have a friend here who has trouble." She greeted a thin, white-haired gentleman with clear affection. "This is Daria Morgendorffer, from America. This is Gerard LeMans."

"A pleasure, Daria. Oh, my, this is not good," he tutted, catching sight of the mangled glasses in her hand.

"They fell off a fourth floor windowsill. Can you fix them? Dauphine says you are an incomparable wizard."

Gerard laughed. "If they could be _fixed_, I would not, Daria. These are, how do you say, _butt ugly?_ You spoil your beauty with these."

Daria blushed. "Well, I don't have much money. I just graduated from college. Are you sure you couldn't fix them so they'd hold together for a few more weeks?"

"Perhaps, but only if you promise me you will replace them with something more suited to your face," he smiled. Taking the wreckage over to a workbench, he selected a length of stiff steel wire. Working quickly and confidently with a miniature bending jig and a pair of pliers, he splinted the broken halves together, binding them firmly together with an overwrap of fine bronze wire. Finally, he brushed on a quick drying coat of black lacquer, which secured and camouflaged the repair.

"Voilà," he smiled. "One month. At midnight, it turns into a pumpkin." Motioning Daria to sit forward, he placed them deftly on her face, making minor adjustments. "I am sorry, but that scratch cannot be eliminated. At least you will not kill yourself walking around."

"_Merci beaucoup, sorte Monsieur,"_ Daria sighed, relieved. She pulled out her wallet, not caring what the cost might be.

"_Non, ce n'est bien_," Gerard smiled. "Put that away. You are pretty even with them on, but please, replace them when you can."

Dauphine smiled, happy to have been able to help.

Daria sat back, smiling, her hair momentarily lit by a ray of morning sunlight reflected off a passing car.

It's color instantly registered to the artist's eye. _Une si charmante couleur!_

"Gerard, her face would work well with the second grouping, no?" Dauphine said thoughtfully.

He studied Daria for a long moment, making her uncomfortable. "Absolutely," he said with a slow smile. "Daria, perhaps we could help each other."

* * *

"Last one, my dear," pouted Remy. He shifted his camera slightly to the left. "You are my _sexy_ librarian, and I bring my book back very, very late," he purred. "You will look at me with anger, and you will… _punish_ me."

She paused as she processed the nonsense spilling out of the photographer's mouth. She tried to keep a straight face, and then burst out laughing.

"Perfect." Remy handed the camera to the assistant. "I think we are done."

Dauphine handed her the new glasses, exchanging them for the last of twelve new eyewear designs. "You are quite photogenic when you have good people working with you," she said thoughtfully. "But you don't enjoy this attention, do you?"

"That's an understatement," Daria sighed. "My sister is the one who would eat this up." She sat down in front of Maxine, the makeup girl. "Would you take this off now?"

"You are serious? I did very little to you, Daria. Only a bit of translucent powder, a tiny bit of shadow." Maxine laughed, shaking her head. "No. If all the girls had your skin, I would be unemployed."

"Come on, Daria, Gerard's taking us out to dinner. You look wonderful. They will send your clothes to the hotel."

_I'm wearing a dress. Then again, I'm half a world away from home, and I can be anyone I want to be. There's no one here to catch me, right?_

"Okay," she smiled.

* * *

"Did you enjoy your temporary employment?" Gerard asked, lips lightly pursed.

"It was interesting," Daria replied with a half-smile.

"She _hated_ it," Dauphine laughed, "But she was a very good sport about it. You are very shy, it seems."

Gerard smiled, shaking his head slowly. "It shows in your photographs. The look is frankly stunning, Daria. You project a purity, a truth that is hard to fake. Remy is very happy, and he is not easy to please."

"She has a sister not quite as shy, is that not so? Do you have a photograph of her?" Dauphine asked.

Daria nodded, fishing her phone out of her new purse. The dress she had on naturally had no pockets, something she was not used to. She opened her photo file, found a photo of Quinn and handed it to Dauphine, who smiled and handed the phone to Gerard.

"She is very pretty, of course," Gerard nodded, but without much enthusiasm. "You see this kind of beauty all the time," he sighed, "She loves the attention. I'm sure she has many men at her heels." He glanced at Daria. "May I?"

She nodded. "I delete the really embarrassing photos."

He began to page through her album. Dauphine leaned in, curious.

His expression registered surprise. "You graduated from Raft University, _Summa Cum Laude?_ In what field, may I ask?"

"My MFA is in English Literature, but I want to write."

"That explains why your eyes show such fire," Gerard murmured. "Your beauty is complex and deep."

Dauphine's eyes widened. "Daria, who is this man next to you? He looks like Trent Lane?"

Daria smiled, surprised. "It is. I've known him for years. He's my best friend Jane's brother. In a way, you could say I've grown up around him."

"I am very fond of his music," Dauphine smiled. "It's very thoughtful, reflective, even if it is so often sad. He seems to be a very interesting man, very gentle and observant."

"He seems quite taken with you," Gerard mused. "And you with him, from the way you flush."

Daria said nothing, finding the color of the tablecloth suddenly quite interesting. Dauphine, noticing her discomfort, changed the subject.

"So do you like your new glasses?"

"Yes, very much," Daria smiled. "Thank you again, Gerard, I would never be able to afford these. They really are a work of art."

"You can thank Dauphine as well; she worked with me closely on this grouping. I find her to have a very good sensibility. The natural horn material was something she insisted upon; I am not usually fond of it as it presents many problems because of its variability in color and patterning, but her approach was quite successful. She can be, as you say, a _pain in the ass _about what she wants," he laughed.

"The color of horn is _perfect _with Daria's hair, which is why I wanted to see her model the entirety of the second grouping." Dauphine sniffed.

"I'm a little embarrassed by the exchange," Daria admitted, taking her glasses off to admire them again. "These are worth far more than I gave you."

Gerard laughed. "Nonsense. I would have paid as much for a model as perfectly matched as you, and I could not find her, not from any of the agencies I use. Please, I must have your address so that I can send you a printed copy of the catalog."

He pulled out a small memo pad and an elegant silver pen. Selecting a fresh page, he handed them to her.

She smiled as the ink flowed like black silk, thought captured on fragile paper, still destined to last longer than her own short time on this earth. Here in Paris there would be, perhaps only as a forgotten memento in a drawer a hundred years from now, evidence of this evening.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Chapter 4**_

_**A Favor for a Friend**_

"Thank you, Dauphine," Daria smiled, a little unsteady on her feet. "I'll return this dress and the shoes to Gerard in the morning." They stepped into the hotel lobby.

"No," came the reply. "Keep them. They are a gift from Remy. He greatly enjoyed working with you. Besides, he is a thief. He _never_ returns the wardrobe items, he gives them to his friends. The clothiers do not mind, they like the exposure."

"Now I feel really guilty for taking all this stuff." _Too bad this dress won't fit Quinn; she'd love it._

Dauphine laughed. "Perhaps you could help me, then. I cannot afford Remy, but I would love it if you would let me photograph my work on you. Not many, only the ones that I created while working on those glasses."

Daria smiled. She could endure a little more discomfort for her new friend. "Sure. Can we do it tomorrow? I'm leaving for home next week."

"Certainly. We can meet in the lobby for a fine European breakfast, before the fat tourists eat it all up."

* * *

Dauphine laughed. "I cannot believe you do not wear jewelry. It insults the work of God."

Daria hated to admit it, but she was greatly enjoying herself playing dress up with the talkative woman. The session was far more casual than in the studio; Dauphine had hung yards of white silk in the sunroom of her shared flat to soften the light. She had quite a good eye, and her photos were excellent.

They had started off sorting through the trays of jewelry, and had soon laid out a number of pieces that Dauphine was quite excited about displaying on her new mannequin friend. The photos went quite quickly, since most were closeups of the jewelry against her neck, wrist and ears, although quite a few were shot in such a way that were almost erotic- she would arrange the jewelry against a reclining Daria, her face turned away from the camera to reveal the ivory sweep of her graceful neck, the soft curve of her collarbone, all framed by a cascade of silken auburn hair.

A bottle of wine was opened, and the two giggled and talked, taking photos until the sun began to drift low in the sky. By then, Daria was well relaxed, and allowed slightly risqué shots of first a ring, and then a graceful horn bracelet on her wrist, her hand concealing her obviously nude lady parts. The images were framed quite modestly, and only the slightest wisp of auburn was visible.

"That's quite enough," giggled a blushing Daria.

"I agree, laughed Dauphine. "Botticelli would have been proud to be so beautifully imitated. I'm not interested in women in that way, but I must admit it's gotten me quite sympathetic to the interests of men."

"I'm getting dressed now," smirked Daria, "I can't believe I let you talk me into this. Turn around, please."

Dauphine complied. "You know, you are a puzzle to me. I admit that I suffer also from a slight hesitation in my relationship with Gerard. I want to be appreciated for the qualities of my work, on its own, not because I am his lover."

"Then you should understand. I'm not comfortable with drawing attention from men with my appearance."

"That's not what I mean, exactly. I speak of this hesitance I sensed when we spoke of Trent Lane."

Daria fell silent, her mood shifting.

"You see?" Dauphine stood, walking over to her music player. "When I listen to his songs-"

"Please don't." Daria said softly. "Listening to him is usually a pleasure, but sometimes, particularly when I drink, I can't bear to hear the sadness that runs through his work. I don't want to hear that pain in his heart."

"And so you really cannot hear it? Daria, I listen to his songs, and I have always had this romantic vision in my mind's eye of this woman that he longs for." Dauphine turned to look her in the eye. "Now I know who she really is."

Daria sat, looking away to the silk that billowed slowly in the now warm light. It moved as though breathing, an abstracted presence that had somehow just captured in its glow a minor soul.

"You love him, and you will not see it. You cannot bear to hear his pain, because you care so deeply for him."

"He can have any woman he wants. Not me."

"You truly believe this?" Dauphine held up an apple, turning it in the warm sunlight. "You do not read of his love life, I believe."

"I don't want to know whom he's dating," she said quietly. "That should be his own private business."

"Aside from the obvious fabrication from time to time from 'unnamed sources,' he himself refuses to speak of it." She handed the apple to Daria. "I have been a poor hostess, I must feed you something other than wine." She retreated into the kitchen. "A little something before dinner."

Biting into the apple, both in its physical form as well as its shadowed metaphor, Daria chewed slowly, the truth released as she tore it apart.

_It had been over six years since she and Trent had slept together, in those blissful summer days before she had left Lawndale for Boston. It was either a time of bravery, or of weakness. He had been her first lover, for those few brief weeks, before they had turned away from each other, each to follow divergent paths._

_Such a short time, and it had changed her forever. The intimacy, made possible for her only by the deepest of emotional connection with another, and the blinding pain of its loss. The bar had been set, and it was set high._

_Had she really understood the reasons behind that parting? It had hurt so much, at so many levels, that it had haunted her until she could bury it by denying that it had ever held truth, and that she had made one of the gravest mistakes of her young life. But what might that mistake have been?_

_Jane had been incandescently furious with Trent. Of course, Daria could never bring herself to talk about it much, only to insist to Jane that it wasn't just him. She repeated that like an incantation that finally began to heal that rift between the brother and sister, and then sealed it away in a stony vault that would always be in her heart. _

_She had turned to her studies as a balm, the only way she could repurpose the fire that would otherwise consume her._

_It was a year before she could bring herself to look at him. _

_It took years more before she thought she had forgiven him. Or did she forgive herself? What was it, exactly, that needed absolution?_

Dauphine paused at the kitchen door, the plate of brie and bread in her hands forgotten. She looked sadly at Daria, her brown eyes blinking back tears. She set the plate down, and plucked a few tissues from a box, crossing quietly to her friend and offering them to her. She took the remains of the apple from her trembling fingers.

They sat together, speaking quietly; and slowly, the room grew darker.

The only illumination was the faint glow of the white silk, filtering what light there happened to be in the night beyond the glass.

_**A/N: and here is where the story should end, if I had any taste at all. But no…this being fanfiction, and a shipper fic at that, I must ruin it by continuing with the requisite happy ending which is coming up.**_

_**Sorry.**_

_**Or, you're welcome. **_**;)**


	5. Chapter 5

_**Chapter 5**_

_**Closing the Circle**_

_**Summer's End; Boston to San Francisco, UA433**_

The turbulence began to subside as the jetliner passed over the California Sierras. A redeye wasn't her first choice, but her schedule couldn't accommodate anything else. At least it was a comfortable flight; she was pleasantly surprised when she picked up her boarding pass and found that he had booked her a first class ticket.

_Is this a mistake? She had asked herself the same question a hundred times, it seemed. We're really good friends again. We can talk about anything, and now we could be ruining it all once more. _

_Perhaps the circumstances really had been the cause of that past failure, and both of them had eventually found their balance without the other. Only now, they were about to take the other's hand again, and were certainly putting that balance at risk. _

_Neither of them were the same person they were years ago. Had she grown enough? Had he?_

_No question, they had changed in very fundamental ways. She was no longer the shy, self-involved teenager he remembered. The world in its bitterness and rapture had revealed itself to her, both in the abstract and in the personal failures and triumphs she had lived in the years since they parted ways. She had learned of her own strength. She had learned to quench the fire of her convictions and passions with the cool quiet of reflection in the same way a blacksmith took red heat and the shock of water to steel, seeking the perfect balance between the razor's edge and the toughness to survive._

_She no longer felt the need for self-pity. She had squared herself with the world, on her own terms. At least, that was how things were, until that fateful evening in Dauphine's flat._

_He, too, had discovered inner strength; his creativity had banked itself into a white heat, something that she both loved and feared. It gave her endless gratification to see him succeed, yet at the same time he seemed to have become as unreachable as a nova in the night sky._

She leaned her head against the window and looked down on the deep green of the foothills, the mirrors of reservoirs and lakes, the crystalline sparkle of glass towers and distant windshields on the interstates far below.

The Sacramento river snaked along, splitting and fanning out into the fractal traceries of the delta. Despite the seeming chaos, the waters were slowly making their way to the Pacific in the only way possible in this moment in time.

_Circumstances and constraints._ _Fate and destiny, the way humans describe the chaotic path of their lives. Such a simple map could only be seen in hindsight, from a distance that filtered out distraction and false hopes, leaving only the things important enough to remember._

The 747 began its slow turn into its final approach to the San Francisco International Airport. She could see the shadow of the airliner as it skimmed over the calm waters of the bay, getting closer as they approached the runway.

_Jane still had her misgivings; she wanted her best friend and her brother together again, but the hope she held close was tempered by the memory of six years past. _

"_I'm gonna pound him if he does something stupid," Jane had muttered. "For that matter, that goes for you too." _

"_And I know you'll do it because you love us both," Daria had snickered._

"_No I don't. You guys are idiots that don't learn." The smile was audible over the phone. "Don't come crying to me if... oh, hell, be careful, Amiga!"_

_Dauphine, on the other hand, was an incurable optimist and a hopeless romantic. She was all for it, which was no surprise._ _ Honestly, Daria had no doubt about what her position on the matter would be, and perhaps that was why she called her, for a little bit of encouragement to take the chance and go for what she knew she wanted. _

"_At least wear one of those blouses Remy sent," she had yawned. "The creamy silk, the one with the white on the collar and sleeves. A little bit of armor, a little something unfamiliar. And the bracelet. It is my best work, my silly friend, I insist. It pairs perfectly with your glasses. And the small studs in your ears. Do not call me afterwards, if you are not with him still I do not want to hear of it. Call me in two days, Daria, but remember the time difference. Oh, Gerard says hello!"_

As she reached for the overhead compartment, the flight attendant stepped up and retrieved her single carryon for her. Sometimes it was a pain in the ass being so short. Slipping her laptop into the side pocket, she switched her phone off airplane mode and made her way briskly down the jetway. It would be a moment before they released the rest of the aircraft cabin, and she wanted to put as much distance behind her as possible.

Making her way down the escalator to the baggage claim area, she saw a few people standing alongside the moving line with placards. She scanned them, looking for the driver that was to take her to the hotel that Trent had booked for her. It was still morning, and hopefully she would have time to freshen up before meeting him. She stifled a yawn as she walked by the line of suited drivers, looking for her name.

She saw it; neatly printed block letters on a card held by a tall, thin guy in scruffy jeans, ratty shoes and a badly fitting suit jacket.

Trent pulled off his sunglasses, picking her up in a hug.

A flash went off, and Daria looked up to see some college girls pointing excitedly. "I _told_ you that was him," one squealed as they rushed forward.

Daria released him, smirking as he was forced into signing whatever slip of paper that the girls had available. One of them picked up the sign that he had dropped. "Omigod," she whispered. Daria facepalmed as cellphones were pointed in her direction.

"Sorry, ladies, but we really need to go. She's had a long flight," Trent said politely but firmly, grabbing her carryon and pulling her towards the exit. Faces turned to the slight kerfuffle, and airport security began to notice.

A Lincoln Town Car pulled up to the curb, and Trent pulled the door open, hustling her inside and returning the jacket to the driver.

"Sorry about that," he said sheepishly. "I just couldn't wait."

Daria smiled gamely and took his hand. "Does that happen a lot?"

"Thank God, no. Not usually, unless it's someplace where the demographics are right, you know, like college campuses, trendy eateries, theaters, you know, where smart people like you hang out."

"Great."

"Usually the fans aren't _that_ aggressive. Just a lot of people noticing, usually sneaking pictures, polite requests for an autograph. I'm not a rocker, you know."

She looked out the window, appreciating the anonymity the dark tinted glass provided. They merged onto 101 North, towards the city. Opening a refrigerated compartment, he pulled out a bottle of water for her. "You must be parched from the flight."

"Thank you. It's too early for those damn Kiwi whatever wine coolers you got me drunk on," she deadpanned.

"Hey, I-"

"I'm kidding. I made my choices on my own."

Nervously, she took his hand again.

"Why did you go to so much trouble, Trent?"

"How could I not?" he replied. "I've wondered if I would ever have this time with you again, so after you called… after we talked over the summer, I would have moved heaven and earth if I had to."

She fell silent, her stomach in knots. She thought back to that conversation that started more than a month ago.

"_Your songs…" _

"_You never figured that out? _

"_I always felt that I was on the other side of the glass looking at something I never thought I could have anymore."_

"_Jesus, Daria," Trent sighed. "You never said anything, so I always thought you were done with me, except as a friend. I thought that was all I had with you, so I never dared to push. I didn't want to lose that."_

_ "Like I said, I hoped that a month in Paris would help me put things into perspective."_

He tried not to stare, but he did a poor job of it."You look incredible," Trent said quietly. "Please don't get angry, I just kind of had to say it."

"It's okay, Trent. I had some pretty expert help."

"Your glasses are beautiful. You got them in Paris?"

"Yes," Daria sighed. "It's kind of a long story. It started when I almost had a meaningless fling when guilt set in. That's when I began to realize that I never really got over you, and that's what's been screwing up my love life all along."

He studied their hands, still together. He stroked the smooth skin beneath his fingertips, feeling the strength that lay beneath.

"I know crowds are really not your thing, but will you come to my gig? You've never been to one and this is the last one of the tour. It's at the Fillmore, and I promise not to publicly humiliate you. I hear they still hand out free apples to the crowd after the concerts, something that's been going on since the 1960's."

The corners of her mouth turned up. "Okay," she said quietly.

"You really do look fantastic. It's just easier to see now."

She laughed. "Will you get me a _soda?_ I like crushed ice, not cubes," she said in an uncannily accurate imitation.

"Jeez, that's scary. I thought I had the wrong Morgendorffer sister for a moment."

"I've had years of exposure to her voice."

"So, this is kind of our first real date after six years."

"This is your nickel, Lane," she smiled. "If we were going dutch, I could spring for this water and maybe half a cheeseburger. I spent all my money in Paris. Otherwise, you can cover the first class flight, limo, the cheeseburgers, and the fancy boutique hotel. Do I get my own room?"

"It's a suite, so it's your decision."

"Good. Just because you've decided to blow ten grand on a date doesn't mean you'll have your way with me."

"That's your choice too," Trent smiled. "I'm incapable of making rational or ethical decisions in your presence, remember?"

"Hey!"

"Kidding, Daria." He paused, turning her face towards him. "But I'm not kidding about this." He leaned forward, their lips brushing together lightly. "I never stopped loving you."

She reached up, pulling him closer. "I tried to, but I never really could."

_Damn seat belts._

_**A/N: A weekend date, after a long, long time. How did it go? One more short chapter…**_


	6. Chapter 6

_**Chapter 6**_

_**Morgendorffer/Lane loft**_

_**Boston, Massachusetts**_

_**One year later**_

She rolled over onto her side, watching him as he dressed. _It's good to have him back home. I miss him when he tours, even though I get a lot of writing done. _

Abbey, the little formerly stray cat, crawled back onto her, purring loudly.

"Where are we going again?"

"It's a surprise, I told you."

"No place formal, I bet," she smirked, watching him pull on the pathetic pair of sneakers he called shoes. "You must have a dozen pairs just like that hidden in the closet," she smiled softly. He was always so unconcerned with appearances, and the result was a kind of bear-in-its-natural-habitat effect that made Trent look like he was always just where he should be.

"Actually, just three. The wardrobe guys made some backups just like these. They said that the fans kinda expect to see me wearing these, but I wear them because I like them."

She stretched out her leg and poked her toe in a particularly noticeable hole, tickling the arch of his foot. "With the kind of money you're making now, I always thought you were just being cheap."

He looked at her and sighed. He sat on the bed next to her, scratching Abbey's belly as she claimed his lap. "Daria, is it important to you that I make a lot of money now? Does it define our relationship for you? I mean, what if it all went away?"

She sat up, looking into his eyes. "I don't know why you're asking this." She reached out and took his hand. "Maybe I'm not very good at reminding you how much you mean to me, and if so, I'm sorry. From my perspective, I love you for who you are and not what you're worth. You've done well because you're a talented guy who is passionate about the things you care about. I don't care that we have a funky loft in an old converted icehouse instead of a mansion in the Hamptons. I happen to love it, and I like a low-key lifestyle. If all your money went away, you'd find something else to do." She squeezed his hand.

He sat quietly for a long moment. "The only reason I got up the nerve to try for a serious relationship with you again was because I had finally proven to myself that I really could stand by your side. Not to take care of you, but…"

"I love you, you dope. I'll be by your side as long as you don't start buying instant coffee, or move us back to Lawndale. Between you and I, we'd always manage to at least get by. I make enough money to pay the mortgage, but you'd have to cover the food and utilites." She scooped the cat up and deposited her on the floor.

"We need to go," Trent groaned, looking at the digital bracelet she gave him for his birthday.

_Awww, where did my slacker boy go?_ She smiled, swatting his ass as he stood, pulling the waist of his jeans down. She smiled as she snapped the elastic waistband of his lucky pair of Scooby-Doo boxers, a gag gift she had bought him seven years ago.

She rolled off the bed, narrowly missing stepping on her laptop. Living with Trent had definitely increased her tolerance for short periods of chaos, something that was balanced by his evolving need for organization. Abbey didn't help things, with her habit of dragging Daria's shoes and socks all over the loft. Quickly digging in her side of the closet, she came up with a pair of non-wrinkled tailored slacks and a decent cashmere sweater. At least the slacks weren't covered in Abbey's fur, and you couldn't tell with the sweater.

* * *

"My contract with the record label still has another two years to go," he said as the elevator shot silently to the thirtieth floor. 'Certain clauses need to be negotiated before my relationship to the label is restructured the way I want it to be. My lawyer agreed to let me bring in one hell of an attorney to handle the most contentious issues, and I just need to sign the papers. We won't be long, and then we can go out to lunch. We've got a guest."

They were guided through the lobby, past a row of dark wood-paneled offices, and into a large conference room. There were only a few people present, and one of them, a woman, stood nearby with her back to the door. The two lawyers on the opposite side of the table looked like they had been run over by a truck.

Trent stepped up to her, and whispered in her ear. He motioned Daria to join them. "I believe you two know each other," he half-smiled.

"Hello, sweetie, smiled her mother.

* * *

"Thanks, Helen," smiled Trent as their meals arrived.

"It was a rather complex negotiation, but it was for a good cause," she smiled at her eldest daughter and her boyfriend. "I can't believe you ordered lasagna, Daria," Helen laughed, shaking her head.

"Force of habit, " she smirked. "Besides, this is really excellent." She took a bite, having second thoughts as she watched her mother cut into her filet.

"Daria keeps a stash of lasagna in the freezer," Trent laughed, tucking into his mushroom and bison chili. "Comfort food for when I leave her at home alone."

"You're really done with touring?" Daria asked, not quite believing it. _No more empty home for months at a time? No more redeyes, weekends in hotels, avoiding fans, cameras and reporters? _"Dammit, I always forget about their chili."

Helen smiled happily as she watched the couple across from her steal off each other's plates."Trent is now CEO of _Lane/Morgendorffer Creative Commons,_ with his former label a significant but still minority shareholder. We didn't have to buy out his contract, and he retains creative control over his own portfolio as well as for the new talent he signs."

"The recording studio in the icehouse is going to be expanded," Trent smiled, "but we'll still maintain a private residence on the top floor. Helen suggested Quinn's friend Annie's firm as the project architects, and I'd like you to take that part over, if you want to."

"Daria, you do realize that there was only one reason for Trent to make this change," Helen smiled softly at the couple. She raised her glass to them. "Love."

Daria flushed, turning to Trent. "Why did you ask if I would still love you if you didn't have any money?"

"He could have lost a lot of it. It was a big gamble, if he had to buy out his contractual obligations. Let's just say he put a lot on the line for you, Daria."

Trent said nothing, shifting in his seat as he reached into a pocket. "We've known each other for ten years, and of that time, I've been truly happy only that one sweet month years ago, and this last year." Pulling her close, he pulled out a small box, opening it carefully. Inside sparkled a pale green diamond engagement ring. He swallowed, nervous as a kid about to kiss a girl for the first time. "Daria, will you marry me?"

She said nothing for a frighteningly long time.

Finally, she responded with one word, quiet and tremulous, and wrapped in joy.

"Yes."

_And you can wear whatever shoes you want, and I won't say a word._

* * *

Later that night, they lay in bed together, thinking about what was to come.

"Trent?"

"Hmmm?"

"Do you mind if we actually have a wedding? It means a lot to my parents. My Dad's been itching to walk me down the aisle and formally get rid of me. We could keep it low key, just family, but I know my mom would want to have it somewhere other than our icehouse."

"Sure. Janey and Quinn would join the lynch mob if we didn't. I know it's kinda old fashioned, but I like the idea of making it official, and it doesn't have to be a normal wedding."

"Thank you," she murmured. _I wonder if I could talk him into-_

"You know, we could have a honeymoon in Paris."

She reached out and took his hand. "It doesn't have to be fancy, you know."

"You know a little hotel there, right?"

She smiled softly in the dark. "Yes. Very reasonable, too."

"Breakfast with friends included?"

"Of course."

"Cool."

**_A/N: requisite positive warm fuzzy ending as promised. Probably too long, and this is the end of this experiment. Thanks for sticking this one out._**


End file.
